


Ascendance

by CelestialSilences



Series: Convergence [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: 3Racha kicks ass and takes names, AU, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Mild Gore, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Seriously this is so soft I promise, Soulmates, Violence, but pretty gore nothing gross, no one actually gets hurt it's all VR, poly 3Racha lovers please accept my humble offering, svt performance unit makes a cameo, this doesn't seem like it but it's a Jopping AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23507218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialSilences/pseuds/CelestialSilences
Summary: In the vast, infinite multiverse, there's exactly one form of entertainment that transcends culture, world, and dimension- the Arena, the most exclusive virtual reality battle royale competition in existence. 3Racha are its kings.“I love you,” Jisung sings in greeting, fading adrenaline high making his lips loose and the weight of his feelings impossible to contain. He sweeps Changbin up in his arms, leaning back after a second to grip his elbow with one hand and brush a lock of burgundy hair out of his eyes with the other. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He punctuates each sentence with a kiss to Changbin’s forehead.His Bondmate’s eyes shine greener than the trees of the Arena as he smiles.“I love you more,” he hums, voice even raspier than usual from disuse, and pecks Jisung on the lips.“I love you most,” Chan chimes in as he appears, cheesy as always, and slings his arms around both of their shoulders to pull them into a loose circle. Some part of Jisung he hadn’t even realized was missing slots neatly into place, and his very being seems to hum with contentment.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Han Jisung | Han, Bang Chan/Han Jisung | Han/Seo Changbin, Bang Chan/Seo Changbin, Han Jisung | Han/Seo Changbin
Series: Convergence [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691434
Comments: 22
Kudos: 119





	Ascendance

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this pretty mess of a 3Racha fic, featuring copious amount of violence, fluff, and way too many extended metaphors <3

The roar of the crowd feels like an earthquake. 

Like ocean waves, it ebbs and flows as people breathe and react to one another; like thunder, it rumbles so loudly Jisung can feel it in his bones, nestling in among his marrow and filling him up with white-hot energy to the point of overflow. The sensation makes him feel alive, _powerful_ in a way few other things can. 

Coincidentally, two of the only other things on that short list are currently by Jisung’s side. The three of them are waiting in the near-dark in their usual order -Jisung on the left, Changbin on the right, Chan in the center- and Jisung can feel their presence almost tangibly despite being unable to see anything in the blackness of the holding room. They are linked by a bond stronger than anything physical; while hearts can be easily squished to pulp and minds liquefied to soup, the silken scarlet threads that snake elegantly around their souls, tying them together for eternity, are entirely infrangible.

They haven’t entered yet, but everyone in the Colosseum knows what’s coming. There’s nothing quite like watching a walkout, be it from the stands or through a livestream. There’s a tangible electricity to it all, a fervent energy to the proceedings akin to a religious experience of the highest order. To say nothing of watching an actual match, seeing a real, living Arena fighter in the (virtual) flesh is the sort of thing people remember for the rest of their lives. 

Jisung hopes they’ll give a good show. 

The next ten minutes are all about posturing, really; and fortunately for them, one of 3Racha’s many specialties is showing off. They know how to ride the energy of a crowd until they might as well be beings of pure electricity, can easily make even the most put-together teams seem naive and out of their depth in comparison to their competitors. Few fighters realize that any good Arena fight has two parts, not just one, and one of them has nothing to do with bloodshed. 

“Presenting,” the caster yells through the walls with the kind of grandeur one would normally reserve for only the highest of royalty, “the one, the only, _3Racha_!” 

The massive metal doors that keep them enclosed within their holding room swing open with tantalizing slowness. In response, the crowd’s screams grow ever-louder, a rapidly approaching tsunami with no plans to recede any time soon. Chan starts to move first, taking a single step towards the near-blinding light in front of them, and Jisung and Changbin immediately follow suit, the trio moving forwards in total unison out onto their stage. 

If life is hell, an unending source of pain and anguish, then the Colosseum is heaven; the playground of deities, opulent and shining, a place where the only possibly emotion one can feel is bone-deep, fervid euphoria. And if both those things prove true, then the Arena is purgatory- a cleansing fire that only the strongest survive, a place where the most profound, intrinsic elements of human nature are scooped from open ribcages like egg yolks, still dripping ichor and sinew and displayed to eager, inferior spectators, held up as a shining example of everything they should strive for. Combat in its highest form, the best of the best of the best blending magic and technology and inhuman skill to cross blades for the entertainment of the multiverse. 

It’s an experience beyond belief for all involved, and as such, fighters need to look the part. 

3Racha has chosen to wear neutral colors for the evening, going for subtle elegance over dramatic flair, and Jisung knows for a fact they look _incredible_. He has eyes, first of all, but even if he wasn’t wildly biased towards his gorgeous teammates regardless of outfit choice, the shrieks coming from the crowd upon taking them in properly is proof enough. 

Changbin is wearing a smoky gray suit, the contrast giving his burgundy hair the illusion of looking like freshly-spilt wine. His coat is long and flowing, unbuttoned to allow it free movement as he walks, showing off the gleaming embroidery lining its cuffs and lapels. Grey pants ripped out at the knees and short black boots complete the look and turn his aesthetic from wealthy socialite to accomplished fighter. He looks, for lack of a better term, wildly expensive, more valuable than all the stars in the sky put together; still, he holds himself with a confidence that suggests even in rags he would carry the same intimidating presence. 

Jisung himself is dressed all in white, his blazer pristine and perfectly fitted to the sharp angles of his waist. Silvery chains drip from his shoulders and every pocket, glittering like diamonds in the light and jingling like bells as he moves. A few locks of royal blue hair hang artfully over one eye, and despite the irritation he feels at having some of his vision blocked, Jisung knows from experience it makes him look positively deadly. 

But Chan, in his opinion, is the true-show stealer. 

As the leader of their team, Chan is allowed to wear his choice of their previous awards to the opening ceremony. He’s wearing his favorite tonight, an ornate crown crafted of brushed, pitch-dark metal that glints in the harsh light of the spotlights trained on him. It’s made to look almost like a wrought-iron fence, with arches of sharp, spearlike points inlaid with black diamonds and a band of shadowy, elegant ivy leaves. Delicate lines of emerald gleam from within the midribs and veins of each leaf as the light plays off of them and make the crown seem to almost pulsate with energy. 

Chan is also clad in a cape of obsidian velvet trimmed with gray fur, just long enough to brush against the ground as he walks. Everything he wears is dark, from his black leather knee-high combat boots to his practically-shredded skinny jeans to his silky dress shirt just barely tucked into the front of his pants. His eyes, too, are thick with liner and smoky makeup that makes his face seem even paler and the glow of his cyan eyes impossibly brighter, like a lightning strike against a stormy sky.  
  
He looks like a god, like one of the war deities Jisung sometimes sees his competitors worshipping. Their prayers never seem to be answered- at least, not when they’re fighting 3Racha.

Some speculate Chan’s apparent divinity goes beyond mere appearance. Rumors flow like a river in a monsoon- there are whispers that Chan is a god-king, a combat deity with electric blue eyes and blood that spills the color of molten gold. Others argue that he’s a Valkyrie, a being made to exist on the battlefield, blessed with the omnipotent gift of deciding who lives and dies.   
  
To Jisung, it’s much simpler- Chan is his leader, his captain, and whether he bleeds poppy petals or marigolds Jisung will fight by his side for as long as he’s able.

3Racha moves in perfect lockstep to the center of the arena, the heels of their boots clacking across sepia marble flooring so shiny their reflections could easily be mistaken for the real thing. Around them stretches a high wall of white stone, corinthian columns with edges sharp enough to cut supporting the massive layers of arches and walls that border the seating area, stretching so high Jisung gets dizzy every time he so much as glances upwards. Ornate lamps burn with flames the color of turmeric, glowing far brighter than their small sizes would suggest and giving the Colosseum an impossibly warm, almost churchlike atmosphere. 

A camera drone flits around their heads as they walk, its small white form darting from face to face in an effort to capture 3Racha in all of their glory. Changbin’s eyes lazily follow the drone as it circles them at an almost dizzying speed, streaming every detail of their outfits and expressions for fans and spectators to praise. 

Their competitors are already standing in the center of the ring, dressed in glittering neon suits and fluorescent makeup. Contrasted with the dark, elegant theme of 3Racha’s outfits, their style seems almost gaudy in comparison, flashy and lurid where 3Racha is sophisticated, almost regal. It was a purposeful decision to dress this way, and it’s a choice Jisung is glad they made. There are a million little things that go into making a fight a real show, a true competition worth the trillion viewers currently glued to their screens, and even something as seemingly insignificant as their walkout outfits can alter their standing in the all-important court of public opinion. 

The Carats, their opponents are called- a four-person team of melee-focused fighters that act as a subunit of a much larger group, known by billions for their elegance and almost beautiful fighting style. They have genuine talent; they’re on a winning streak right now that’s lasted the better part of a month against some truly formidable teams. However, as is the case with all too many fighters in the Arena, The Carats have a glaring fatal flaw- hubris. 

They’d made a mistake in challenging 3Racha, and tonight they’ll be put in their place. 

The Carats even offered to fight as three, to allow them a fairer chance at victory, but 3Racha had refused the suggestion without a second thought. They’ve fought and come out on top against teams of far more than four; accepting such an unnecessary handicap would be almost offensive. 

3Racha finally comes to a stop a short distance away from the Carats and looks their competition up and down, gazes expressionless. The show begins. 

The leader of the Carats -Hoshi, Jisung vaguely remembers from battles past- clicks his fingers, and in one synchronized motion all four of them fall into an elegant bow, one hand coming to rest on their chests and the opposite arm folding behind their backs as they dip their heads in deference to their competitors. 

In return, 3Racha crosses their hands, right over left, and offers the Carats a ninety-degree bow in perfect unison. They stay with their heads bowed for three seconds exactly and rise up again as one with a level of total uniformity achievable only through hours of tedious practice. 

The posturing here is almost as important as the combat itself. No one likes a disrespectful team, not in a competition as high-level as this one. Anyone who’s made it all the way to the Colosseum has earned it ten times over.

Once they’ve expressed their respect to one another as fighter etiquette states, they turn to face the wider audience- the Carats spin on their heels in unison like they’re executing some complex choreography, 3Racha simply turns and takes a step forward. Chan, as he always does, stands slightly behind his other teammates, the result of some unshakable protective instinct that’s as continually embarrassing to him as it is endearing to Changbin and Jisung. 

“Ladies, gentlemen, esteemed guests of all kinds- presenting your fighters for the evening!” the caster roars, amplified voice booming through the stadium. The crowd explodes into cheers, an earsplitting mix of yelling and screeching and strangled shouts of various names. The Carats bow again, low and dramatic instead of poised and respectful. 

All 3Racha does is tilt their heads up high and square their shoulders, soaking up the energy of the crowd. There’s a smirk on Changbin’s lips sharper than the freshly-redone slit in his eyebrow. Chan straightens his crown and crosses his arms behind his back, looking for all the world like he owns the Colosseum and everything in it. Jisung waits until one of the camera drones comes close, hovering around his head like a plastic, million-eyed insect, before flashing it a wink and the kind of smile that he knows from experience melts hearts like butter. 

“Alright,” the caster continues, their voice hushed and smoldering with excitement. “Place your bets, everyone! Will the Carats continue to be as flawless as ever” -they pause here to let the Carats’ fans scream their support for their chosen fighters- “or will 3Racha” -someone lets out an impressively high-pitched screech, and Jisung barely resists the urge to laugh- “burn them out of their winning streak?” 

More raucous cheers and chanting. There seems to be an even mix of Carat fans and 3Racha supporters in the crowd tonight, and, as is the norm, the two groups have segregated themselves based on proximity to the door their chosen group entered from. When Chan turns to their side of the Colosseum and offers a quick wave, their fans scream so loudly it sounds almost painful. 

Jisung glances at the Carats, watches them greet the crowd with effervescent smiles and an abundance of blown kisses. They’re excited for tonight- with the record they’ve built up over the past few weeks, they just might be Gauntlet material. Even a loss here, while certainly disappointing, likely wouldn’t do much to hurt their chances at making it into the highly coveted year-end tournament. 

Jisung wonders what it would be like to be allowed into the Gauntlet, to face off against a different team every night instead of every couple of weeks, to have a chance to really, really prove 3Racha’s worth as fighters. 

But the final rankings, the list that makes up those who are allowed into the Gauntlet, aren’t up to them- they’re up to the Three, and they seem to want something other than a nearly-flawless competition record and billions of fans to guarantee a slot. 

“Best of luck to both teams!” the caster calls, snapping Jisung back to himself, and the crowd roars their support, expressions of luck in dozens of languages ringing out. “May the best fighters win!”

Jisung straightens his shoulders one last time as he waits to be augmented into the Arena, catching the eyes of as many spectators as he can. Their gazes grant him nearly as much strength as the presence of his team beside him, and as the edges of his vision blur into nothingness he feels electric, _alive_. They’re going to win this- there’s simply no other possible outcome. 

With that thought in mind, Jisung flashes one last sunny smile to the crowd before his vision fades into white. 

**_________________**

The Arena is a paradise like no other- or made to look like one, at least, an oasis crafted from the finest parts of the multiverse. Like a mirage made from the deepest, most desperate prayers of the dying subconscious, it’s perfect in every conceivable way, a saccharine, ethereal treat to the senses. 

Trees of every possible shade of green coalesce to create a resplendent jungle on the island, one speckled with hundreds of types of flowers and tropical, bird-like species with plumage that glitters brighter than gemstones. Its beaches, though small, are made of sand so white it nearly gleams in the midday sun, and the lagoon surrounding it all shines a brilliant cyan that glitters brighter than even the sky. 

Its size varies depending on the size of the teams fighting in it. For the biggest of groups it can grow to enormous proportions, so large simply finding enemies to engage can be half the battle; for smaller teams like 3Racha, the island is so tiny that even at its center one can still hear the gentle thunder of ocean waves crashing against the beach. 

Jisung comes to consciousness right at the lacquer line where the surf meets the sea, the sand below him damp with saltwater. He blinks for a moment, getting his bearings in this fresh new iteration of his body, and hops up just in time to avoid being slapped in the face with a wave. Still, the water slinks up to the middle of his calves, soaking his black pants and combat boots through with disgustingly lukewarm water. Jisung shivers. He hates spawning near the ocean. 

Chan likes it, the weirdo- he claims the smell of the sea reminds him of home and therefore improves his performance. 

_What are you, a nymph?_ Jisung always likes to tease.

 _It’s not even a real sea,_ Changbin will point out, and Chan will stick his tongue out at the both of them as they laugh, and most of the time they’ll end up at a pool by the end of the day. 

It’s a sweet memory, but hardly a pertinent one, so Jisung pushes it aside and stands up. Hopefully the sun will dry him off quickly. 

Thinking of his teammates is enough to set him moving towards the jungle, stride loping and head swinging from side to side, checking constantly for movement. While it’s unlikely for him to run across anyone else so early, it’s certainly not impossible, and it’d be embarrassing for Jisung to be eliminated so early because of his own overconfidence.

He slips into the forest soon enough, trading the roar of ocean waves for the chatter of animals and the rustle of leaves. Here, Jisung slows his pace, beginning to focus almost solely on listening for other fighters. The jungle’s foliage is thick and in constant motion, and listening for footsteps even among the chaos of the wildlife is a far more efficient tactic than simply looking. 

As he walks, one hand strays toward the hilt of his _wakizashi,_ ready to pull it out at a moment’s notice. His _nodachi,_ strapped to his back, will only be used if he can get the jump on someone, or if he’s attacked from behind and instinct triggers before rational thought. He’s equally quick on the draw with both weapons, but he’s been trying his best to learn to go for his smaller blade first; it tends to work better with the close-range combat that’s meta among fighters these days. 

For an achingly slow few minutes, his walk is uninterrupted, and Jisung is starting to feel tension seep into his bones as he continues to search. It’s strange to go so long without coming across _someone_ , ally or enemy, and Jisung is starting to wonder if there’s a teamfight somewhere he’s missing out on. It unfortunately wouldn’t be the first time-

Motion flashes in the corner of his eye. Before Jisung can think, he’s whirled around and drawn his _nodachi_ to face the threat. His opponent, unfortunately, seems to have reacted similarly. 

Glacier-blue eyes watch him warily from behind long black hair, head tilted back ever-so-slightly to avoid being cut by Jisung’s sword. The8. 

His enemy’s scythe brushes the edge of his throat, the metal icy cold against his skin and glinting in the sunlight. Jisung’s sword juts into the dip of his enemy’s clavicle, the needle-edge of its tip caressing the tendons there through the paper-thin softness of his skin. 

For a moment they simply stare at one another, The8’s steely gaze meeting his eyes unblinkingly. Moving first would invite certain death, but so would simply letting the enemy strike; thus, both of them stay frozen, locked together but each unwilling to break the tension. 

While Jisung isn’t unconfident in his ability to win here, their current stalemate certainly makes things harder- it doesn’t help that his opponent is a notoriously skilled solo combatant with a nearly unbeatable skill set. Scythes are an infamously difficult weapon to use, clunky and large where other weapons are slender and deadly. For those who are willing to put the work in, however, scythes can become a truly lethal companion in battle, one that few know how to effectively fight against and even fewer can combat with matching skills of their own. Combine that with The8’s nearly limitless teleportation magic, and the result is a nearly unstoppable fighter. 

But, as everything does, The8 has a chink in his seemingly impenetrable armor, one all-too-easily exploitable once it’s been discovered. Some fighters have weaknesses in their styles, some have flaws in their temperament, and a special few have their hearts clutched in others’ hands. 

Jisung would know- he’s one of them. His heart is split in two, freely given to fill the void in the chests of his members, an equivalent gift in return for theirs; and as such, in the gaping recess where his own should be, nestled among blood and flesh and viscera and counting every second of his existence with ceaseless precision, he has the halves of two others, fused together and lined along the hems with strings of the finest red silk. 

The8 has also given his heart to one of his teammates, something not uncommon among Arena fighters, and from what Jisung knows, Jun carries it with a pride and solemnity that’s nothing short of admirable. They’re a cute couple- he’s seen them holding each other after fights, clinging to one other with magnetic intensity as they celebrate victories. They fight so well together they might as well be the same entity. It’s a fantastically useful skill to have in battle, one any unbonded fighter would likely struggle against. 

Luckily for Jisung, however, he has twice the Bondmates The8 does, and he knows perfectly well how that strength can easily be twisted and manipulated into a weakness. Jun can’t stand to see The8 be hurt in any preventable way, and if it comes down to it, he’d sacrifice himself to protect his lover in a heartbeat. So, in theory, if 3Racha manages to back The8 into a corner, Jun will come running. Two birds, one stone. 

It’s imperative that they manage to even out their teams as quickly as they can. While Jisung has full faith in their ability to win despite the Carats’ numerical advantage, leveling the playing field is important. He needs to win this fight, and quickly. 

Silence spills through the forest like water, fanning out through the forest until the birds have stopped singing and the wind has stopped blowing. In the Arena, Jisung has no heartbeat and no blood flows through his veins, so even the sound of his own existence is entirely inaudible. 

The8 blinks at him. His scythe doesn’t falter in the slightest. 

Still, Jisung waits. His soulbond is dulled to the point of uselessness in the Arena out of fairness to the unbonded, but he doesn’t need magic to know that he’s never alone for long. 

Something rustles among the foliage. 

Jisung cracks a smile. Two eyes and an equal number of blades glint among the foliage, and it’s Jun of all people who peeks out from behind the trees. 

Jisung’s expression very carefully does not falter, but he can feel the atmosphere shift as Jun appears behind The8, eyes widening marginally as he takes in the scene before him. He shifts into a combat stance and readies his rose-gold _kukris_ , silently sidling up behind his Bondmate and looking like the cat who got the cream. 

Finally, The8’s gaze shifts fractionally to glance behind him, and-

_Now._

Jisung moves. He ducks out of the way of The8’s scythe and skids to the side, lunging for Jun before he can truly get his bearings. Jun crosses his _kukris_ in front of his chest to catch the attack, and metal screeches against metal as Jisung tries and fails to crack his defense. 

Drawing his _wakizashi_ upon springing apart, he swings his _odachi_ directly into Jun’s waiting blades. Still nothing, but now Jisung stabs up with his smaller weapon into his chest at the same time. Jun blocks the strike with a flick of his wrist, Jisung’s blade glancing off of his uselessly. 

From Jisung’s right, The8 swings his scythe with the intention to behead, and Jisung drops like a stone to the ground. He tries to take the opportunity to stab at The8’s thigh, but he easily blocks the hit on his scythe’s downswing.

Jisung blocks another _kukri_ strike almost on autopilot and skids backward as he does, repositioning himself so both enemies are facing him. It doesn’t help much. He’s outnumbered, and Jun and The8 have a level of synergy he can’t possibly make up for alone. 

The8 readies another strike, taking a running step forward as he prepares to disarm Jisung once and for all. For a moment, Jisung considers that he may have miscalculated. 

Then comes another rustle among the trees. Too loud to be a bird. And there’s only one person in the Arena who would ever bother climbing a tree mid-fight.

Jisung smiles, sidesteps, and catches Jun’s blades with his own once more, not to attack but instead to hold him in place. 

A shadow crosses over Jisung’s field of vision as Changbin dives past them, hawklike, twirling in midair to set the angle of his flails up just so. It’s all too easy for one to wrap around Jun’s neck, chain jingling with an ironic sort of musicality as it’s pulled taught enough to kill. The other follows soon after to slam directly onto his head, a sharp beat drop to close out his song. 

Just like that, Jun is out, form exploding into glittering shards of featherlight glass that slowly fade to nothingness in the sunlight. Changbin doesn’t so much as pause, skidding to a stop just adjacent to Jisung and readying his flails for their next target. 

The8 blinks once, expression shuttering until he looks as dead as his lover. He teleports behind Jisung and _swings_ , alarmingly fast and harsh. Jisung is prepared- he whirls around and catches the strike with his _wakizashi_ , and the clang of metal on metal resounds like a gong through the trees. 

Behind the two of them, Changbin winds up one of his flails and launches it forward. The8 simply catches the chain with his blade and lets it swing around and lock into place, negating the attack. He tries to take his newfound momentum and flip Changbin over, but Changbin, sturdy as a boulder despite his otherwise slight form, doesn’t shift in the slightest.

He moves to swing his other flail The8’s way, but the other fighter is quicker, jerking his scythe down and out of the flail’s chokehold and teleporting in front of Jisung, swinging his scythe down before he can so much as consider moving out of the way of the strike. 

The scythe slams deep into his thigh, but Jisung is already moving quicker than lightning to stab The8 between the ribs. The two weapons slice through flesh in the same moment, carving through viscera and bone like wet paper, but Jisung’s hit matters more. 

The8’s eyes go wide for a moment, the grip on his scythe loosening, and suddenly he’s nothing more than sparkles. Jisung moves to sheathe his weapon, and just like that, they’ve won. It feels almost surreal, the fight’s outcome having shifted quicker than lightning, but Arena combat is nothing but not fast-paced once it’s begun. 

“You okay?” Changbin asks in lieu of a greeting. There’s no room for pleasantries before a battle is done. 

“Just fine,” Jisung hums. He’s been through far, far worse. “Two down.” 

“Two to go,” Changbin finishes, and holds out a hand to help him up. 

The hunt from there is a quick one- all they have to do is follow the thunderous sounds of gunfire from where they've started up near the edge of the forest. Sure enough, in a clearing filled to the brim with bright orange flowers, Hoshi swings his nine-tailed whip at Chan and loops it around one of his hands like leathery vines, pulling one of his pistols from his grip with the ease of plucking ripe fruit from a tree. He dances away from Chan before he can so much as aim at him in retaliation, grinning. 

While Hoshi is an excellent leader and second to none in sheer flair, he’s always been better fighting in a group. Jisung doesn’t even have to take so much as a step forward before Chan catches his opponent’s next lash strike in one hand and shoots him point-blank with the other, watching nonchalantly as Hoshi explodes into sparkles. It probably says something about Chan that all he does is casually shake his hand out and holster his pistol, but Jisung is far too used to his sheer excellence to even blink at the blatant display of power. 

The threat now dealt with, Changbin and Jisung slip into the clearing and silently find their way to their leader’s side. 3Racha, reunited. Nothing will stop them now. 

“Dino’s not far,” Chan tells them. “I saw him when I was tracking Hoshi.”

Fierce excitement sings in Jisung’s bones, some sharp, animalistic instinct in him humming in pleasure at the thrill of the hunt. Unless Dino were to pull off the most clutch comeback in Arena history, they’ve effectively won. This should be easy. 

Sure enough, they come across their last opponent less than a minute later, making no effort to be quiet as they search. They find him measuring up to leap through the split trunk of a tree, and the sight of Dino whirling around, sandy blonde hair a blur and eyes impossibly wide, is almost comical. He doesn’t take long to act from there, making the only choice he possibly can when outnumbered so badly. 

“I forfeit,” Dino sighs without preamble, yanking off his knuckle dusters and letting them clatter to the ground before holding his hands up in surrender. 

Now comes a choice. Chan can allow him to concede and take their win, or he can execute Dino anyway, make it as slow and bloody as he likes. It’s not uncommon for teams to refuse a forfeit to make their performance more fun, especially when it comes to groups they have a rivalry with. 

But despite the lightning in his eyes or the ichor in his veins may suggest, Chan is kind beyond belief, and 3Racha isn’t that kind of team. “We accept,” Chan says, voice loud and authoritative.

Dino’s shoulders visibly slump in relief, and Jisung wonders for a moment who on earth would execute someone like him for fun. 

“Congratulations to 3Racha!” the caster booms, mic connected back to the Arena for his closing speech, and he begins rattling off their individual stats and complimenting the fighter’s performance. “Carats, your performance was admirable.”

“Sure,” Dino mutters to himself, dejected, and Jisung almost -almost- feels bad for him. 

“Well played,” Chan says cordially, and Dino smiles wryly. 

“We’ll get you eventually,” he replies, and though the words are clearly meant as fanservice, there’s a weight to them that suggests this won’t be the last they’ll be seeing of the Carats.

“Fighters, please take a bow for an incredible performance!” the caster commands, and 3Racha does just that, hiding earsplitting grins behind their drooping hair as they bend down in unison.

“Thank you everyone for watching!” they continue, and before Jisung can so much as glance up again, his vision bleeds into white. 

**_________________**

  
  


Waking up is always disorienting. Being extricated from the deepest recesses of Jisung’s own mind and unceremoniously dumped back into reality is a little like being tossed out of a beam of warm sunshine and into an icy lake. His human body is so fragile, so prone to little tics and aches and pains, so inherently _flawed_. 

He’s also suspended in the air, silvery, semi-translucent vines wrapped around his every muscle and tendon to keep him immobilized. As if seeming to notice his return to consciousness, the tendrils of magically-enhanced biotech immediately begin to lower him to the ground, motions slow and gentle. Jisung focuses on keeping his breathing even as he falls in slow-motion, trying to convince his lungs to work properly again. Lately he’s been having an issue with some of his more essential organs not waking up from their artificial sleep before he’s conscious and needing them again. 

Digitization is a strange, questionable procedure, and the tech that makes it happen is an understandably overcomplicated cocktail of technology and magic, a middle finger in the face of every natural law in existence. There’s only a handful of people in the known universe who can maintain it, even fewer who fully understand how it works, and it’s still the most powerful piece of technology in existence. It’s the sort of thing one could use to enslave trillions; thus, in typical human fashion, it’s been used almost exclusively for entertainment purposes. 

The system that manages the Digitization process -an arm of the larger sect of cyberspace dedicated to the entirety of Arena combat- isn’t supposed to be sentient, but as Jisung feels it carry him toward the ground with an almost maternal sort of tenderness, careful not to jostle him and dig the needle-sharp thorns of its many vines deeper into his skin, he’d swear it’s as alive as he is. 

At least he woke up slowly enough to miss his actual Disconnection; when he’s killed, oftentimes he’ll wake up while the Digitization vines are still reluctantly retreating from where they’ve been curled up amidst his tendons and vertebrae, digging their roots into the folds of his brain like they’re fresh soil. Sometimes the process makes an audible, fleshy sort of _squelch_ , the sound deeply disconcerting to listen to when coming from the one part of the human body that’s never supposed to make noise. Thank the gods it doesn’t leave behind a hole. 

The smaller external vines, cocooning every inch of his body in a grip barely loose enough to avoid cutting off his blood flow, are a little less forgiving- beyond simply mapping and regulating his physical form for the Arena, they also impress upon him a harsh consequence for any injuries he receives in combat in the form of bruises that ache like his very flesh has been scooped out for days. 

Finally, Jisung’s boots brush the ground and tap the metal of the floor with a soft _clack_ , and the wires of the Digitization tech immediately start to wither and die like an unwatered plant on fast-forward, releasing him from their thorny clutches. Jisung takes a cautious step forward, careful not to dig any lingering thorns further into his delicate skin, and upon deeming himself entirely free he stretches his arms high above his head, relishing in the feeling of bones popping and muscles straining. The high of combat is still sizzling in his bones, electric and scorching, and Jisung can barely feel his limbs as he stumbles forward to find Chan and Changbin. The ghost of the stab wound in his thigh aches as he moves, but the pain serves as little more than a sweet reminder of their victory. Something about the injury itches today, strangely, and Jisung glances down to find the remnants of a vine clinging to the wound, thornless and thick like a vegetal sort of bandage. For reasons unknown even to himself, he leaves it. 

The Digitization room is always overtaken with vines by the time a fight is over, its otherwise stark white design marred by wires that dangle haphazardly from the ceiling and snake across the floor, a forest retaking an abandoned city for its own. As such, it’s difficult to find his teammates by sight, but all Jisung has to do is focus on the direction his heart sings toward, and in no time at all he comes across Changbin, rubbing his eyes lazily as the last of the vines encasing him slither away from his calves and back into the walls. 

He’s adorable like this, and the weak tether holding back the euphoria roaring in Jisung’s veins finally snaps. They’ve won another fight, destroyed the Carats, and _fuck,_ Jisung loves his Bondmates. He practically bolts forward, the sound of his footsteps causing Changbin to perk up and turn to him, a smile already starting to form on his lips.  
  
“I love you,” Jisung sings in greeting, fading adrenaline high making his lips loose and the weight of his feelings impossible to contain. He sweeps Changbin up in his arms, leaning back after a second to grip his elbow with one hand and brush a lock of burgundy hair out of his eyes with the other. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He punctuates each sentence with a kiss to Changbin’s forehead, lips dry and cracked from the dehydration that comes with being stone-still for an inhumanly long time.  
  
His Bondmate’s eyes shine greener than the trees of the Arena as he smiles.  
  
“I love you more,” he hums, voice even raspier than usual from disuse, and pecks Jisung on the lips. 

“I love you most,” Chan chimes in as he appears, cheesy as always, and slings his arms around both of their shoulders to pull them into a loose circle. Some part of Jisung he hadn’t even realized was missing slots neatly into place, and his very being seems to hum with contentment.

“We won,” Chan hums after a moment. They’ll do a proper debriefing later; it’s a tradition for 3Racha to go out for breakfast and analyze the footage of their fight the morning after every match, but for now all they have to do is revel in their victory. 

“Of course we did,” Jisung scoffs. They’re 3Racha, after all- they don’t lose. 

“This one wasn’t even hard,” Changbin chimes in, grinning at Jisung, who laughs, light and giddy.

“Still,” Chan says, voice caramel-sweet in the way it always gets when he’s feeling sappy, “I’m proud of us.”

He smiles at them then, wide and bright, and for a moment the sight takes Jisung’s breath away. Chan looks at the two of them like they personally poured the magic into his veins, like their eyes contain every secret of the universe within their depths. It’s the sort of expression most people would be unable to meet, too terrified of the sheer devotion and earnestness it radiates, but all Jisung does is grin back twice as wide in response. Chan’s impossibly profound adoration of his team is something he’ll likely never be able to comprehend the true depth of, but something he’ll simultaneously never flinch away from, an unflaltering planet in the face of a star soon to go supernova. 

And, of course, he reciprocates it with just as much intensity. 

“We’re proud of you,” Jisung coos right back, tone joking but words genuine, and the utterly smitten look he receives from Chan in reply is so pretty he can’t help but kiss it off his face. 

Unsurprisingly, things escalate quickly from there- what better way to celebrate a victory than kissing the loves of your life breathless? 

Chan’s head hits the wall behind him with a muted _thunk_ as Jisung pushes him forwards, one hand coming up to tangle in his curls and the other moving to find his hip. Encountering absolutely zero resistance to his actions, Jisung gleefully nips at Chan’s rose-petal soft lips, reveling in the soft sounds he lets out and the way his mouth falls open almost too easily to let Jisung’s tongue inside. 

There’s a brush of another body next to him, and suddenly Changbin is there, one arm looping loosely around Jisung’s waist as he latches onto the side of Chan’s exposed neck. Their Bondmate lets out a surprised squeak at the new contact, a noise quickly swallowed up by Jisung before it comes anywhere close to being audible. 

Time seems to slow as they kiss, saccharine sweet instead of fiery hot. There will be time for that later -and they’ll surely make time- but for now, the only thought in Jisung’s mind is of communicating the joy singing in his veins to Chan with every touch of their lips. 

“Fighters,” an automated voice says, high and musical, “please exit the Digitization room immediately to allow for reset.”

Jisung lets out a disgruntled noise at the command but breaks away anyways, admiring the way Chan’s chest heaves and the fresh, rapidly-purpling nebulae Changbin has pressed into his skin. For a moment, all Chan can do is stare at them, dazed and entirely starstruck, aquamarine eyes unfocused and shimmering like miniature galaxies. 

Then, as quickly as the expression had come, it vanishes, and the leader of 3Racha is back and coherent. “We should go.”

Chan presses a kiss to the crown of Changbin’s head, equal parts apology and blessing, and absently brushes a hand over his lips as he stands up properly. From the pocket of his jacket he pulls out a simple black facemask, its material shimmery and sparkling ever so slightly in the light. While masks aren’t required for fighters to wear by any means -Jisung, for one, generally forgoes them, liking to have his expressions on full display- most still do, enjoying the anonymity and unlimited aesthetic options they offer. 

“May I?” Jisung speaks without consciously meaning to. It’s a transparent excuse to touch Chan’s face, but he certainly doesn’t seem to mind, not if the way he smiles at Jisung and hands over the mask is any indication. 

Jisung gently tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, sweet and affectionate, and slips its loops over his ears, minding the piercings and dangling earrings glittering from them. 

“Thank you, _jjakiyah_ ,” Chan hums when he’s done, switching for a moment to the language of his homeworld to convey his affection. “Anytime, babe,” Jisung grins, throwing in a wink for good measure and relishing in the laugh Chan lets out in response. 

“What about me?” Changbin complains, his own mask, painted like the grinning, bloody jaws of some beast, dangling loosely from his fingers. 

Chan huffs a giggle. “Come here,” he says, and Changbin practically skips over to him, chin dropping into Chan’s outstretched hand not unlike an affectionate cat. 

Jisung, never one to allow himself to be ignored, drapes himself over Chan’s shoulder in the most irritating way possible, smiling widely at the resulting glare he receives from Changbin. Chan completes his task easily enough regardless, and when he’s done the three of them move as one entity towards the door.

Another thrill of fierce joy pierces through Jisung- they’ll get to show off in light of their victory now, most people in the compound having undoubtedly heard about or seen their fight through the near-infinite number of screens scattered across the facility. There will be congratulations, offers for next fights, chances at future awards. With that in mind, he squares his shoulders, grabs his teammates’ hands, and prepares for another show. 

If life is hell, the Colosseum heaven, and the Arena purgatory, then fighters are gods; tested over and over again by every type of flame imaginable, burnt down to their very cores only to be forged all over again into bodies of liquid steel, bones braced by glory and adoration, with veins of red threads stitched into crystalline flesh to irrevocably bind them to their teammates. 

The magic intertwined with the technology they use on the daily has left its imprint on their souls, altering them for all eternity. Jisung is not the same person he was four years ago when he’d come stumbling wide-eyed into the Colosseum for the first time; he’s not the same person he was when he and Changbin and Chan bound their souls to one another two years ago with such ease it seemed almost laughable to think they hadn’t done it earlier; nor is he the same person he was even yesterday, running practice drills with 3Racha and laughing over bottles of foamy soft drinks in the cafeteria for lunch. The Arena exsanguinates a new part of his being every time he steps into it, dyes it harlequin, and grafts it back into his soul, leaving behind only the smallest of scars, imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t already know they’re there. 

No fighter merely survives the Arena- rather, they become it. 

The proof is in the way Changbin’s eyes glow with chartreuse phosphorescence some nights despite him being entirely human; it’s in how Jisung moves so gracefully these days he might as well be a ghost; it’s in the way tropical flowers inexplicably curl their way around Chan’s wrists after every fight, roots sewing their way into his skin and sipping from the rivers of ichor in his veins until they bloom with petals that bleed rivulets of gold and Chan braids them into his lovers’ hair while they sleep. 

It’s a strange life, and an unsustainable one -eventually, his soul will metamorphosize into something unrecognizable, and he with it- but it is something Jisung wouldn’t trade for anything in the multiverse.  
  
It’s perfect. 

(Almost.) 

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I wish I could draw so bad bc I'd draw this 3Racha in a heartbeat :((~~
> 
> There will be six parts to this series, building up to eventual ot8, so look forward to that! Hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> (and if you want to read some polyam skz in the meantime, maybe check out [Equinox, ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586590) my District 9 AU?)
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it!! Comments make my day and inspire me like nothing else :)  
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> [ CuriousCat ](https://curiouscat.me/CelestialSilences)
> 
> I also do commissions! please check out my info [here ](https://twitter.com/CelSilences/status/1277485845428285441)and dm me if you're interested!!


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